Nonverbal
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Abe blinks, trying to guess at the fumble of logic in Mihashi's head with almost nothing to go on, and then Mihashi takes a breath and says 'What is…' and Abe realizes the other is looking at something on his wrist." Mihashi asks about Abe's scars and Abe looks to the future.


"A-abe-kun."

"Takaya," Abe says into the sheets under him. He shifts his arm under himself and pushes up by an inch so he can turn his head to the side and look up at Mihashi next to him. "My name's Takaya, Ren."

"Ah." Mihashi closes his mouth, pressing his lips tight together as his whole face flushes to crimson for a moment. He drops his gaze from Abe's to stare at his hands instead but Abe doesn't say anything; it's a lot easier to be patient, he's found, when he's as languid with satisfied heat as he is right now. His usual knot of irritated tension doesn't form as the seconds pass, his breathing doesn't try to catch into the strain of frustration; he just breathes slow, filling his lungs and letting them empty with as much focus as if the reflex really requires it, and finally Mihashi parts his lips and takes a breath before lifting his chin again.

"Ta-" He breaks off, his throat working on the sound like he's forgotten the shape of Abe's name. "Takaya."

Abe shifts his head in the tiniest indication of a nod of approval. "What?"

"What…" Abe thinks for a moment Mihashi has capitulated to the force of anxiety again, that his voice is fading in time with his gaze sliding away from the other's face; but then Mihashi reaches out with a careful hand, and touches his fingertips to Abe's wrist, and Abe realizes the shift of the other's gaze is deliberate instead of accidental. He blinks, trying to guess at the fumble of logic in Mihashi's head with almost nothing to go on, and then Mihashi takes a breath and says "What is…" and Abe realizes the other is looking at something on his wrist.

"Huh?" Abe frowns confusion and pushes up hard against his other elbow. "What is what?" When he lifts his arm to inspect the skin still tingling from contact there's nothing there at all, just his arm the same as it ever is. "What are you talking about, Ren?"

"H-here." Mihashi reaches out again, his gaze still fixed on Abe's wrist; it's not until his fingers touch against the faint pink outline of a scar that Abe notices the familiar outline at all. "What's this?"

"Oh." Abe turns his arm in towards himself to consider the faded proof of an injury he had all but forgotten. "It's a scar from playing baseball in middle school."

Mihashi's mouth makes an _O_ of understanding. "...A fall?"

"Nah." Abe lets his arm fall back to the support of the bed again. "I got hit by a pitch during practice." He flexes his fingers idly against the sheets under him, remembers the ache of the impact jolting up the whole length of his arm from the distance of so many years the pain is hazy and faint even in memory, without the blinding agony that came with it the first time. He can barely remember the bruise that spread to mottle purple and red across the whole front of his arm in the days after, with the stitches in the broken skin covered with a bandage that always came away crusted with dust at the end of practice when Abe went home to wash and rewrap the injury. "I had to keep the stitches in for a week."

"Oh," Mihashi says, his voice very small in his throat. "Sorry."

Abe shrugs. "Not like it was your fault. _You've_ never hit me with a stray pitch."

Mihashi's forehead creases, the corners of his mouth drag on confusion. "Who…?"

"Haruna," Abe says shortly. There's a flicker of tension between his shoulderblades, familiar irritation straining against his spine at the hiss of his former pitcher's name; but the comfort of the situation overrides that too, eases the worst of long-past anger from his shoulders and lets him relax into the bed under him with nothing more than a huff of frustration to follow the other's name. "He never did figure out how to control his pitches. I got better at catching them, after a while, but at the beginning I was getting hit a few times a day."

Mihashi's eyes are wide when Abe looks back up at him, his whole expression knocked blank by shock. "Hit?" he says faintly, his voice breaking in the back of his throat like it's not sure it wants to slip free of his chest.

"Yeah." Abe turns his head down against the sheets again and heaves a sigh into the soft of the mattress. "I thought at first he might be aiming at me on purpose." He snorts against the pillow. "He probably would have hit me less often if he were."

There's quiet for a moment, the strange tense silence that so often falls at the end of a conversation with Mihashi. Abe's too drowsy with warmth to make a guess at what's going through the other's head in the quiet; but he shouldn't leave Mihashi to it unattended, he knows. He reaches out without looking instead, fumbling out across the sheets until his fingers brush warm skin and he can fit the weight of his palm to comfort against Mihashi's knee.

"You're better than he ever could be," Abe says; and then, with unintended honesty that startles him even as it falls from his tongue: "You're perfect."

The room goes quiet again. Abe can feel his cheeks going warmer, can feel the prickle of embarrassment winding along his spine in an attempt at tension that doesn't quite catch hold of the warmth in him. Then Mihashi moves, his knee shifting under Abe's touch, and there are fingers around Abe's wrist, calluses Abe knows better than he knows his own pressing close against his skin to draw his arm up and off the sheets.

"What-" Abe starts, turning to see what Mihashi is doing, but then there are lips at his skin, the weight of a clumsy kiss pressing against the scar at his wrist, and Abe's voice dies to shocked silence as Mihashi pulls back to look at him where he's sprawling over the bed. Mihashi's eyes are wide, his mouth is soft; but there's no hesitation behind his gaze, and there's no uncertainty trembling against his lips as he meets Abe's stare.

"I think-" Mihashi starts. "I think you're perfect too." A pause, an inhale; his shoulders straighten, his expression sets on determination. "Takaya."

Abe's breathing catches in his chest. It's like he's forgotten how to inhale, like his lungs have suddenly lost the rhythm of their usual function; when he blinks his vision goes blurry, too, his eyes hazing until he thinks for a moment he's going blind, that his sight is failing him in a sudden, improbable rush. Then he blinks again, and wet spills from his lashes to trickle across his cheeks, and he realizes he's crying, realizes that the pressure against the inside of his chest is the weight of emotion unfolding like a flower blossoming to Mihashi's touch.

"Ren," he says, but then his voice fails him, his words catch in the back of his throat, and he can't find the clarity to speak what he needs to say, doesn't know how to express the ache of affection so sunshine-bright against the pounding rhythm of his heart. Mihashi is still watching him, his fingers still looped in a gentle hold around Abe's wrist; and the only thing Abe can do is push up on his other elbow to sit up in a rush. Mihashi's lashes shift, his lips part on unvoiced uncertainty, and Abe reaches out with his free hand to curl his fingers into the soft color of the other's hair and draw him forward so he can press his lips against the silent question on Mihashi's.

Sometimes it's easier to communicate without words.


End file.
